


C/C Bingo Round 2 - Phobias

by annagarny



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-16
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:18:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annagarny/pseuds/annagarny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've been issued a 5X5 card... damn. This is going to eat a lot of time! (my own fault, though, I requested the sucker...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coulrophobia

"Come on, they’re only back in this part of the country for a few days, and I want to catch up with a few of the trapeze artists - apparently they’ve learned a few more tricks since I left.”  
“I don’t know, I mean-”  
“Please, please, please? I know you like how limber I can be, imagine what kinds of positions I could get into after a weekend hanging out with a girl who can fold herself into a tiny little box!”  
Phil was still seated at his desk, his entire focus turned to his computer screen, and hadn’t actually looked Clint in the eye since the word ‘circus’ had passed the archers’ lips.  
Clint stood, hands on hips, on the other side of the desk and his eyes narrowed when Phil didn’t respond. Usually a single instance of ‘please’ from Clint was enough, more than enough, to make Phil acquiesce.  
He cocked his head and considered Phil’s expression, he’d gone all Agent-Face - Clint’s personal name for when he schooled his features into that careful neutrality that only Phil had really mastered, the look that terrified junior agents and Avengers alike, because it usually meant he was about to tell them that something or someone was trying to destroy or enslave humanity.  
“Why don’t you want to come to the circus with your boyfriend, Phil?” he asked, pitching his voice just a little lower, still loud enough for Phil to hear him, but lending some intimacy to the conversation as he took a seat opposite the man he’d been sleeping with for the better part of a year.  
"I just don't think I can justify taking the time off, Clint."  
"Really? Is that the only reason?"  
"Look, just - I don't know. Take Steve. He was complaining the other day that he'd never been to a proper circus, he'll love it."  
"But I want to take you, Phil. Please?"

There it was. Phil's shoulders slumped slightly and he dropped his eyes to his keyboard where his hands had been resting, still, since Clint had come into the office. He took a deep breath and, after a moment, looked up at the archer.

"Clint, I need you to understand this, and not question me for once. I do not want to go to the circus with you. Please, take Steve or Tony or Natasha, anyone else. I just- I can't. Okay?"

Clint's eyes widened as Phil looked over at him and the raw expression was too much. He didn't even bother going around the desk, just stepped up onto it and over, gathering Phil into his arms and hugging him tight until the agent squeaked in protest.

"Okay, so... circuses are a no-go. I'll take Steve, but we're not done talking about this."  
"Yeah, I know."  
'I'll see you tonight."  
"Yes. Have fun."  
"We will. Love you."  
"Love you, too."

Clint left the office feeling a little confused, but determined to discover exactly what the hell had happened to get Phil Coulson of all people so rattled about the prospect of going to the circus.

Phil was wracking his brains to come up with a plausible reason not to have gone with Clint, because he didn't think he could take the shame of it if Clint discovered that the technical term for a fear of clowns was "coulrophobia".


	2. Homichlophobia

Clint liked living in the city. It certainly beat living in a caravan or a tent on the outskirts of a town, sleeping on inch-thin foam mattresses worn to almost nothing thanks to being used as padding for the acrobats' equipment in between stops on the road.

Stark Tower was the most luxurious place he'd ever lived, and sometimes that put him on edge.

So he'd sneak out late at night, grateful that JARVIS seemed to like him and never reported him missing when he did so, and walked through the city, not bothering to take a cab or the subway, and would choose a different route every time until he ended up thirty-five blocks away from where he started, staring at a familiar brownstone and wondering if Phil had bothered upgrading his security again or if he should, you know, actually use the key he'd been given this time.

He never did. Not even when Phil was with him did Clint use his key - he liked the challenge of breaking into Phil's apartment without setting off the alarms or booby-traps; he'd only been caught out once and that was when he'd been distracted by his cell phone buzzing in his pocket - as it turned out it had been the agent whose home he was invading, asking what exactly he thought he was doing with a glass-cutter and if he knew how much those windows had cost to get double-glazed last winter.

This time, it was almost three AM and Clint hadn't slept in almost 48 hours, but he was still restless. His legs wouldn't stop itching and in spite of his eyelids drooping he had practically run the distance to Phil's house this morning. 

So he was a little less aware than usual as he broke into the guest bedroom, and didn't see the trip-wire until his boot touched it.

There was a low hissing noise and Clint froze, crouched on the windowsill and waited for the trap to spring.

After three seconds nothing had changed, except the hissing had gotten a little louder, so he dropped down into the room, content that whatever the booby-trap was it hadn't been lethal, or perhaps Phil had been expecting him to come in through that window and had disabled the security measures in the room.

He got two steps before he blinked, hard, then froze again. 

There was a stream of white fog curling around his ankles and Clint was paralysed with terror.

The moment he'd spotted the vapour his brain had shut down and he'd been thrown into a memory of a time when he was barely five, and Barney had taken him for a walk in the woods behind their house. They'd been running around, playing hide-and-seek when Clint had decided to try and outfox his brother, climbing a tree until he was about eight feet in the air, giggling at his own cleverness while Barney walked around shouting for him.   
Clint had settled into his little nest, one ankle hooked around a small branch, wedged in a fork between the trunk and a solid branch and listening to his brothers' voice fading.   
After about ten minutes he couldn't hear Barney any more and decided that meant he'd won the game, so shimmied to the ground and started to walk back in the direction of their house.  
Another five minutes passed before he started to think that surely the house hadn't been so far away... had he gone the right way? Where was Barney?  
Clint began to shout, crying out for his brother, running through the darkening woods and desperately searching for any sign of something familiar.   
He found himself back at the tree he'd climbed, recognising the branch he'd used to start his climb, seeing the patch of moss he'd kicked off when he'd planted one shoe on the bark and sat down among the tangled roots, tears streaming down his face.  
"Barney? Barney, I don't want to play anymore! Come back! I'm not hiding, Barney! Barney! Stop hiding!"  
He shouted until his voice gave out, then buried his head in his arms and cried, huge gulping sobs that shook his entire, tiny frame as the last of the sunlight left the forest.  
When he next looked up, he couldn't see five feet in front of him for the thick, white fog that had descended in the evening chill.

"Clint? Clint, are you okay? Clint, I'm here - what's going on?" Phil's voice dragged Clint out of the memory and back to the present, but his cheeks were wet and he was crouched on the floor of Phil's guest bedroom, hugging his knees, face pressed to his forearms.  
He looked up at Phil and tried not to let the choked sob escape his throat, but it was useless.  
"Oh, Clint. Come on, come to bed." Phil had, at some point, disabled the fog-creating booby-trap and most of it had dissipated.  
Clint managed to get back to upright with Phil's hand around his midsection, and allowed himself to be taken to bed.

If he clung to his lover tighter than usual that night, neither of them mentioned it in the morning.


End file.
